


Whispering Trees

by gnosiophobic



Series: Footprints in the Snow [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, F/M, Jealousy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-18 07:41:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gnosiophobic/pseuds/gnosiophobic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Envy.</p>
<p>He wanted to shake it all away, to arise the next morning, finding it all a dream.  To find himself a young boy once again, full of hope, striving for glory and honor, but when he closed his eyes, he saw only blue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whispering Trees

**Author's Note:**

> Something in me just wouldn’t let this idea go, so I’ve decided to write more based on Dying Embers as a kind of not-so-chronological series where some parts will be more closely related to others and some not. I’m going to try to avoid getting too bogged down with plot, as I’m much more interested in writing about different aspects of their relationship as time goes on, but I may occasionally need to introduce plot points as blurbs at the beginning for context as I go along. Anyway, I was definitely torn because I felt like the one-shot ended in a good place, but I found I had more to say. If it gets too OOC or ridiculous, please let me know and we can just pretend none of it ever happened! Otherwise, hope you enjoy!
> 
> The characters and the universe are not mine, nor do I claim any ownership to them. GRRM gets all the credit here.

A figure laid beneath him.  A large, broad figure, with hair of straw, kiss-swollen lips, teeth too large, and a spattering of freckles.  And he was engulfed by the bliss of it all, the simple, deep satisfaction.  Soft candlelight and pleased, almost girlish moans filled the air of the foggy, but surely exquisite bed chamber.  With both of his hands, he caressed skin far softer than he anticipated.  Each thrust and each touch filled him, so that he might burst with indulgence, happiness, or some other emotion unlike any he’d known before.  His heart felt as though it spilled out a searing liquid, that scorched his skin, leaving unmistakable marks written all over him--little reminders of what he felt in this very moment.  He closed his eyes, taking in the overwhelming pleasure.

 

When he opened them again, he found soft candlelight replaced by shadowy dankness, and pleased moans were now pitiful whimpers.  He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, and instead could only watch the sight before him.  Hyle Hunt and Brienne.  Rough, hard, uncaring.  It was Aerys and Rhaella, Cersei and Robert all over again.  And here he stood, in a corner, powerless.  Hunt threw his head back and growled.

 

He expected to awake stiff and aching, but instead he found himself limp, lifeless, and panting.

“Something the matter, my lord?” Podrick Payne sat on watch nearby.  Nothing about the boy reminded Jaime of his grim, tongueless relative.

“No, nothing of import.  Just a bad dream, it seems.” Podrick nodded, turning his attention back to the darkened tree line surrounding the camp.  Jaime laid back, unsettled and unable to return to sleep.  _The first half of that dream was quite lovely_ , he laughed.  A sudden chill descended through him, a sore reminder he laid alone.

Brienne hadn’t spoken to him candidly for days or longer, not since the night he kissed her.  He’d tried to pull her back with his now seemingly desperate jests, too fainthearted for anything sincere, but she kept herself away.  He knew it selfish to remain so close, but just out of reach.  He knew he should feel grateful for the single kiss they shared under the stars.  Many men strived for love, and he’d found it twice and in two forms, _The Stranger and the Maiden._ Only to have it denied. And somehow she knew this would happen. _She ran from it.  I should have let her slip away._

 

After countless days following Brienne, he tried to pull himself from her, to return to the Lannister camp and act as though nothing had happened.  He had even constructed clever excuses for his absence, should his bannermen have the courage to ask.  He’d do it that night, he told himself.  Leave them without a word.  Brienne would understand, she had known her feelings could lead to nothing.  But then he’d hear the sound of her laughter drifting through the leaves as she trained Podrick, watch her shyly shrink away from Hunt’s suggestions, or he’d catch her blue eyes briefly, and find himself following her once again, day after day.  _Like a young and green lovesick squire the other boys mock._ Eventually, he gave up.

 

Silence and introspection defined most of the day’s ride.  Occasionally, Podrick would excitedly point out an animal he saw as it scampered into the woods, or Hunt would whistle some lewd tavern song whilst chancing glances at Brienne, but she remained awkwardly restrained, as always.  

“We should find an inn soon.  We’re getting low on rations,” Brienne announced to no one in particular from atop her horse.  Her tone revealed nothing.

“Oh, I quite like that idea,” Hunt jumped on the suggestion.  “You and I could share a room, then, my lady.  By the end of the night, I’d have you praising the gods, begging to make me your lord husband.”  Jaime stared at the back of his mare’s neck, biting his lip.  The Maid ignored his bawdy jape, but the blush that crept up her neck to her face betrayed her cool demeanor.

“If rooms must be shared, I will share with Podrick.  Hyle, you and Ser Jaime can share."

“You always share a room with young Podrick.  I’m starting to get a bit jealous of the boy, myself,” Hyle continued.  Now even Podrick blushed.  _I surely couldn’t have been this obnoxious_ , Jaime decided, but knew the unfortunate truth.

 

When they stumbled upon a slow-moving creek, they paused to fill their skins and allow the horses a rest.  Tired and stiff from a day’s ride, Jaime patted his mare on the hind and took off for the woods.  Wind whistled as it danced through the leaves of abundant trees, the songs of birds drifted to the ample clouds above.  _Snow fell here recently_ , he noted, _a rare occurrence this far south._   It reminded him of the Stark words, bleak as they were.  As a boy, he’d pondered those words in lesson upon lesson with his maester, always deciding he liked _Hear me roar!_ much better.  Even now he felt powerful words resonated best, striking fear in weaker houses.  Still, the Stark words rang true even on the warmest of summer eves, while he stood alone in the wilderness, a lion without a paw from a crumbling house, rotten from the inside.

 

Not far off he heard footsteps abruptly hammering into dirt still damp from melting snow.  Familiar voices cut through the whispers of trees, echoing further than likely intended.  _Hyle and Brienne.  Alone._ He stood quietly, listening to them, even as he knew he shouldn’t.  It started out as an innocent thing--Hyle’s incessant japes followed by Hyle’s laughter alone, and Brienne’s subsequent and expected silence.  

“A nice clearing like this, far away from the prying eyes of others, it’d be a shame not to make good use of it,” Hunt chuckled.  _Gods, I am starting to despise that man_.

“True.  See if there’s anything worth scavenging here,” Brienne responded, disinterested.  Jaime almost laughed out, and even more at the absence of Hunt’s own presumptuous chuckling, but then something in Hyle’s tone changed, betraying his mocking amusement.  His voice deepened some.

“Brienne,” Hunt started, almost nervously.  “I understand you have every reason not to trust me, especially when it comes to this matter of betrothals I keep on about.  Really, you have no reason to even tolerate me.  And honestly, I’m a bit surprised you haven’t grown tired of it all and slit my throat in my sleep quite yet,” Hyle laughed and Jaime drew closer.  

“I know I’m not the highborn knight from the songs maidens dream of, golden, handsome, gallant and all that, but I know this--I could protect you. And Tarth, as well.  I’d like to think I’d make a good lord, at least with you by my side.  And I know I’d make a good husband.  Together we’d have an heir strong enough to sing about,” his voice lifted, hopeful, then slowed again, a cadence that haunted Jaime’s ears and imprinted itself in his mind, only to be played over and again the next time he closed his eyes to rest. “And I’d never hope to change you.  I promise you that.”  Hunt breathed in deeply. 

“So, my lady, I ask again.  Will you accept my proposal, informal as it is, and allow me the honor of taking you as my betrothed?”  Jaime waited for the sound of Hyle Hunt landing unceremoniously in the mud, but it never came.

“..I’ll consider it,” Brienne muttered, so quiet Jaime could scarcely believe he’d heard it at all.  Hunt laughed then, jovially, almost sincerely.

“It’s certainly better than another refusal.  You’ll come around yet.”

 

That cold night, Jaime dreamt again, but this one was much different.  Soft candlelight returned, along with pleasure-filled moans, yet he sat in the corner, one-handed, and again unable to move or speak.  Brienne’s contented smiles matched Hunt’s loving gaze, and this time it was Hunt who closed his eyes in pleasure.  Somehow this dream stung more than the last.  _He only wants Tarth_ , Jaime reminded himself upon awakening.

 

Midday had past before they discovered a promising inn, far enough away from the battling lordships to grant some privacy.  The innkeep appeared an unassuming older woman whose husband tended a nearby farm.  Quietly, the group supped and drank by a large stone fireplace.  They collected more rations and paid the woman extra, which she accepted, gratefully.  Jaime tried to focus on the taste of a hot meal he’d not seen for weeks, or the slick, dry, red wine sliding down his throat, but found himself reminded of Hunt’s heartfelt proposal all too often.  It could be the tiniest thing--Brienne resting her hand on Oathkeeper’s hilt, Pod smiling genuinely when Hunt made a joke, the stale taste of day-old bread.  All of it grated on him, coming dangerously close to rubbing him raw.  He tried to think if he had spoken a single word that day, as he carried his saddlebags up the stairs to his room that evening.  Nothing came to mind.

Once he stumbled past the threshold, he carelessly slumped his bag onto the wooden floorboards under his feet and collapsed onto the lumpy, duck-feather bed.  A tiny speck of black darted across his arm, catching his eye as it tickled golden hairs.  _I’ll make for a feast tonight_ , he smiled, ruefully.  With a sigh, he reached for his boots, pulling them off thoughtlessly before curling up onto the bed.  There he laid for a long while, troubled by Hunt, by Brienne, by Cersei, fickle as she was, by his abandoned duties, by his white cloak.  He wanted to shake it all away, to arise the next morning, finding it all a dream.  To find himself a young boy once again, full of hope, striving for glory and honor, but when he closed his eyes, he saw only blue.

 

Without another thought, he arose from the feather bed and strode to the door.  A quiet, but forceful push, opened up the room enough to release him from everything he desperately wished to leave behind.  He didn’t bother knocking on Brienne’s door, not allowing her the opportunity to feign sleep or hide.  She sat at the edge of her equally lumpy bed, polishing Oathkeeper gingerly, as though the impressive sword may break under a harder touch.  Her eyes caught his shadow first, then met his, wide and wary, nearly dropping her sword.  _She doesn’t trust herself around me._

“Ser Jaime,” she choked on his name.

“My lady.”  As much as he still desired to take her in his arms and kiss her troubled mouth as he had that cold night not long ago, he stood in the doorway, tethering himself with only respect and duty.  She sat, speechless, worried and still, her gaze, unwavering.

“I am truly sorry to bother you so late.  I know we need our rest, but I felt I should speak to you.  ..I haven’t had the pleasure of late,” Jaime nearly cringed as the awkward words tumbled from his mouth.

“What is it, Ser?”  Her formality struck him odd, he misliked that.

“Hyle Hunt,” Jaime began, forcing Brienne to take on a rather resigned look.  “How do you know him?”

“It’s none of your concern,” she suddenly restricted her expression to something more stern.  He didn’t bother to mask the grimace he felt upon hearing that.  And Brienne must have noticed, as her face softened, her gaze darting swiftly to the floorboards, again revealing that timid maiden she strived to keep hidden.

“From Renly’s camp,” her voice barely rose above a whisper.  “He ..and others.. made a bet to see who could take my maidenhead first,” Jaime knew this story was not one he’d soon forget.

“I suppose it started off innocent enough, though I never understood why men would concern themselves with such an ugly girl.  Most of them I ignored, some of them I bested at combat, but Hunt..” she paused, almost wistfully, pulling herself back to a time more innocent.  “I truly thought Hunt cared for me.  He gave me gifts, he made me laugh.  And I liked him, too.  ..Turned out he was just the one with the best plan to win.”  The maid didn’t cry as she spoke, didn’t even show residual pain, as if she’d played it out in her head over and again until the wounds calloused.  

“Then why consider his proposal?”  He no longer felt ashamed that he’d eavesdropped on them near the creek.  If it surprised Brienne, she seemed too consumed by her past to let on.

“He’s followed us all this time.  He could have died by the hands of the Brotherhood waiting for me to return, unsure if I even would.  And he never turned on me.  If nothing else, I know I can trust the man now.  Once Sansa Stark is found, I should return home, fulfill my duty as heir to Tarth and finally make my father proud.”

“But you don’t love him,” Jaime found himself saying, unexpectedly.  Brienne’s face twisted into some awful mixture of confusion and disgust.

“Love?” She nearly spat the word.  “Tell me, Ser, do you know many highborn maidens who have married for love?”  Jaime thought of Cersei then, and he thought of Sansa Stark.  “Wedding someone I’ve met before the ceremony is more than most in my position.  What would you have me do?” Her words, stormy and desperate as they filled the modest room lit only by a single candle.  If Cersei stood before him, the answer would have come easily, like a mantra.  _Marry me.  Gods and Targaryens.  Kill anyone who opposes us._ He’d said it probably a hundred times before, each less effectual than the last.  Now he was disgusted to find he had no other response.  And he would not insult Brienne’s honor like that.  Nor his own any longer.

“I don’t know,” Jaime bowed his head slightly, tearing his eyes from hers, too scared to read them.  He left her there, closed her door, and laid on his own lumpy bed while small, cottony bits of snow floated by the window above his head, never quite able to land on the ground below.


End file.
